


;from hardship to the stars

by luciferesque



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferesque/pseuds/luciferesque





	;from hardship to the stars

“Have you no room among your gods for another?” she asks offhandedly, and there is a smile on her lips, as if she understands nothing about the blasphemy of which she speaks.

Zaida says nothing, can say nothing. Instead, her tongue shrivels and her words turn to ash in her mouth.

It’s really the first of its kind, this rush of emotion she feels toward Cassandra. Where once was grace and affection and fondness, now exists only frustration at the sheer gall of the idea. Zaida takes a deep breath, then another, but still she shakes. It’s consuming, this anger. And why? Because yet another shemlen is ignorant of her people’s ways?

She should be used to this by now, shouldn’t she? Ignorance fused with confidence that supplants any effort to have a meaningful conversation. But somehow this stings more than usual. Something about it touches a wound deep in her chest, one that Zaida was unaware is bleeding.

She watches Cassandra leave, departs toward the armory in which she resides, and if Cassandra turns to say her goodbyes, Zaida is gone before she can see them.

*

She gives it a few days; some space, some time to breath without the weight of the world standing on her chest every time Cassandra enters the room, but necessity calls for action and Zaida requires Cassandra’s skills in the war-scarred Dirthavaren.

Keeper Hawen tells them about Halan’ghilan, and Var Bellanaris to the south, both legends that Zaida knows but has never seen and so they carry out their duties under her leadership, gaining favor with the Hawen’s clan.

They camp that night a stone’s throw from the aravels, after herding the golden halla back to safety and putting spirits to rest, and Zaida sits at the fire, eyes sliding out of focus.

Usually she welcomes this, chewing on her bleeding cane while finding the stillness in nighttime respite, but she has known no peace since Cassandra let slip what should an innocuity, a drop in an otherwise empty bucket.

“I think…” the voice is coming from somewhere behind her,” that, perhaps, you have been avoiding me.”

Zaida doesn’t shift, only sucks the juice out of the fibers of the cane, savoring its mellow sweetness.

It is Cassandra who approaches from the darkness, but she knew that, flicking ears catching tell of the unique shuffle of her boots against the grass, the lilt of her tongue.

She takes a seat beside Zaida with a delicacy usually reserved for softer women, and sighs, something gentle and fleeting.

There is a silence between them that stretches onward and outwards, as if suspended inside an eternity, until Zaida spits the last of the cane into the fire and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Maybe so,” she says, eyes flickering gold in the dim light.

“Ah, I… see.”

“But you don’t know why, do you?” Zaida asks with a huff.

“I do not,” Cassandra tells her, and tells her truthfully.

Zaida opens her mouth as if to speak, but again, nothing comes. She can feel the sourness on her tongue, as if the very words have spoiled in her throat. She turns to face Cassandra, fists clenched tight.

“Room among my gods for another?” Zaida hisses, and the light meets Cassandra’s eyes as the realization hits her.

“You might as well ask if there’s room in my heart for another, Cassandra,” she spits. “Is there room in _your_ heart for another? Would your venerate your Maker along with Elgar’nan and Mythal?”

“Zaida, it is blasphemy to place someone before the Maker and call them a god,” Cassandra says earnestly, brows knitted tight.

The camp is quiet now, save for the shrill cry of cicadas in the dark.

“You think, because we have a pantheon instead of one single creator, it’s any less blasphemous to place your god among mine?” Zaida asks, dangerously low.

“I only meant–”

“No, you meant what you said and what you said is that, while it’s all well and good for me to accept your Maker into my heart, you have no room in yours for mine.”

Cassandra sighs again, this time a little more forcefully.

“You are right. I am sorry for the implication. I am trying to understand what it is like – what it means to you, but it is difficult,” she begins. “I know so little; I have no knowledge of Dalish mythology.”

Zaida feels it like a knife

“ _Mythology_? You would speak of us as if we’re foolish; as if your god is more legitimate than mine?” Zaida stands. “Like we’re subjects meant for study and not a living, breathing people?”

“Zaida –”

“No! We’re not stories meant to lull shemlen children to sleep at night, Cassandra. Do you not see them out there?” she points towards the aravels, sails shifting in the wind. “Those are my people, and we did not survive near-annihilation at human hands to have our culture swept away for the sake of your comfort.”

Zaida leaves, simply leaves, and does not once look back.

*

The next day feels constrained, as if someone took their hand and wrapped it around the throat of dawn, squeezing until everyone there could feel the pressure.

“Cassandra has informed me that she’ll be away for the day and has called Warden Blackwall to relieve her,” Dorian announces as Zaida crawls from her tent.

It was a rough night, one of bitterness and poor sleep, and Dorian’s cheery tone does nothing to help matters.

“He’ll be hiking from the main camp to the north,” he tells her, with a firm pat on the shoulder. “And I will be relaying no more messages. This feels a bit too much like running between my parents when they’ve had a falling out, you understand.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Zaida sighs and begins packing up her things.

The journey is a tiring one and yet little is done before the sun begins to set. They’re exhausted from clearing out hostile spirits from the ramparts, from roaming across the plains. Zaida calls it just as the sun hits the horizon: they will make camp and rest as best they can for the night.

She is nursing a bruised rib by the campfire, enjoying the warmth as a cool breeze whips around her face and hair when she hears those familiar footsteps approaching.

_Cassandra_.

She doesn’t announce herself, doesn’t need to, not at this point, and Zaida huffs out a breath, clipped with irritation and stands to leave.

“Wait… please,” Cassandra asks, holding up a hand.

Zaida stills, eyes catching a gleam in the low light.

“Brightly burning Elgar’nan, Lord of Vengeance and the Sun,” Cassandra begins, voice raspy as if from overuse. “Righteous Mother Mythal protects everyone.”

The words are as familiar to her as the back of her hand, the vallaslin on her face. She learned this rhyme as a child still clinging to her mother’s legs.

“Merciful Falon'Din, friend of fortune and the dead. Dirthamen, the Knowing One, leads our elders ahead,” Cassandra continues, taking one step toward Zaida, then another.

“Sure-footed Andruil, with her bow in hand. Gentle shepherd Ghilan'nain guides People ‘cross the land.”

Zaida can feel the tears brimming in her eyes and she turns away, facing the fire instead.

“Blessed Sylaise keeps the hearth and the home. June, the Clever One, teaches craft with trees and stone,” Cassandra rasps, touching a hand to Zaida’s face. She tugs gently on her chin, turning Zaida’s gaze upward until their eyes meet.

“Then there is Dread Fen'Harel, He Who Hunts Alone. Chasing after the People, forcing them to roam,” Zaida recites, barely a whisper, before she leans her head forward against Cassandra’s chest in an embrace.

“Who taught you that?” she asks with a sigh.

Cassandra wraps her arms around Zaida’s waist and kisses her forehead.

“Keeper Hawen. He… I told him of my mistake and he shared some of your people’s history with me.”

“I’m surprised he was so forthcoming,” Zaida admits.

“He saw my distress, I think, I told him of _our_ … of you and I. He was critical, as I expected, but not cruel.”

“You learned that for me?” she asks, slipping an arm around Cassandra’s back.

“Yes, I learned a great many things today. And I will continue to learn until I understand – this I promise you,” Cassandra tells her gently. “There may not be room in my heart for other gods, but there is room for you.”

Zaida smiles and takes Cassandra’s lips against her own.


End file.
